There’s a quiet kind of healing that happens when you stand beside a horse. It’s not loud or dramatic. It doesn’t come with fanfare or applause. It comes in stillness—in the soft exhale of a warm breath, the calm gaze of a deep brown eye, the rhythm of hooves meeting the earth. That’s where I began to find my soul again.

I didn’t set out searching for self-awareness. I was simply drawn to horses—their beauty, their mystery, their power. But over time, I realized they were doing more than sharing space with me. They were teaching me how to come back to myself.

In their presence, I learned to listen—not just to them, but to the whispers of my own spirit. Horses don’t care about who you pretend to be; they feel what’s real. They mirror the truth we carry inside, without judgment. And in that reflection, I saw the parts of myself I had hidden away: the fear, the strength, the softness, the longing to be understood.

There were days I showed up broken, uncertain, carrying more than I could name. And they met me there—with patience, grace, and steady hearts. They didn’t ask me to fix myself. They asked me to be present. To breathe.

Each ride, each walk through a field, each quiet moment brushing mud from their coat, was a step deeper into my own awareness. I started to notice the way my breath changed when I relaxed. The way my thoughts slowed when I matched their pace. The way my heart opened when I let go of needing to be anything but real.

Horses saved my soul not because they gave me answers—but because they helped me remember how to listen for them. They led me back to the ground beneath my feet, the rhythm of my own being, and the sacred knowing that I am enough just as I am.

In their eyes, I found home.

Until next time, be kind to each other.

xoxo

Cindy

Ecclesiastes 3:19